Leicester City 1 Chelsea 2 – Saturday 9th September 2017 15:00
International Break: It’s not that I’m unpatriotic. I abuse anyone who doesn’t stand for the national anthem. The Queen has been nice to me and my fridge door is a magnet shrine to her, the Duke of Edinburgh (who I wish was my grandad) and Winston Churchill. But I’ve broken the cycle of self flagellation that is watching a load of bellend Scousers and Sp*ds running round achieving nothing in an England shirt. Not a minute did I watch. Instead I dined off the US Open and the lasting high of Arsenal’s smashing at Anfailed and of Sp*rs failing to win at Wembley. Again.
I did sit shaking my fist at Belgium on the Bet365 live feed when they had the cheek to use Hazard. Grr. I wonder how close Diego comes to losing that temper of his when he sees Morata nicking his career. What is it? First player in the Premier League to get a goal and an assist in both his first starts? Janice (muppet alias) isn’t here to do my stat checking. She basically worked as my PA and creative consultant for that transfer window breakdown. Without her it could have been 3000 words of traditional lewd British sexual innuendo and Game of Thrones metaphors. Anyway, Morata also smashing it for Spain too. Nothing else caught my eye about the break apart from Antonio in his budgie smugglers on the beach. Nice. He was reading a guide to speaking for English for football. Outstanding:
“At the end of the day” – Over-used phrase trollied out by managers in post match interviews of ambiguous meaning.
“Bottling” – The act of almost achieving something spectacular, telling anyone that will listen that glory is yours, taunting the opposition and then faceplanting at the last moment and winning nothing. See also: Sp*rs
“Joey Barton” – a w*nker.
Leave any more in the comments section if you see fit.
In the News: Speaking of Barton. Since his brilliant and much deserved demise he’s filling his days with yapping about things that are not his concern, or that rest outside the realms of his intelligence. Which is everything. Including gambling. Because he was betting on himself to score. He says Barkley decided to pull out of his Chelsea move because Antonio turned his phone off. I say: get thee back to the bar at ye local Wetherspoon’s for your 9am pint with the rest of life’s broken humanity. The Daily Fail have titled Keown, Redknapp & Sutton as The Three Wise Men. What the f*ck was the criteria?! Joined up writing? Counting past ten without taking their socks off? All three completely outwitted by Carragher. Which is a low bar. Because he can’t even speak properly. You can always rely on Roy Keane to come out with something mindlessly stupid too. He says in today’s transfer market Ryan Giggs would have cost £2 Billion. That’s right. More than all of the money spent in the entire window plus about another £500m. No more for him, bartender. Ray Wilkins says selling Matic to United was the stupidest thing Chelsea have ever done. Come on mate, you worked for the club. You should know better than that. Winston Bogarde is up there. That graphite and tangerine kit too. Again, feel free to contribute stupider things we have managed over the years… the Nike Dictatorship Megastore Overhaul is a contender for me. Arsene Whinger says Arsenal could still win the league this season. And I could sell enough copies of my book to fund a half decent bottle of gin, Bertie the kitten could go a whole day without smashing something that I own, and little green men could land a spaceship on the park at Old Trafford and claim Fellaini back for whatever luntatic planet he came from. All of these things could happen. They won’t. I’ve left the King of the bullsh*tters till last. Chequebook Pulis is lauding his own intelligence. Says Lukaku would have cost him the same as Mbappe on deadline day. I don’t know what’s more ridiculous, the idea of £150m for a bloke with a decent finish who essentially goal hangs his way through every game or the wording that intimates CP would have paid it.
The Others: The Scouse have gone from second to seventh in a matter of hours. Glorious. I have actually laughed until I cried watching the highlights. Bertie thinks I have lost my mind. I’d like to know what Klopp’s complaints were about. I don’t care where your eyes are, if your foot is six feet off the floor and the keeper gets stretchered off, you’re f*cked. Just when you thought Pogba couldn’t make himself look any more stupid he comes out at Stoke looking like a startled parrot. If Stoke win 7-0, said a hopeful travelling Chelsea steward, we go second. This is the kind of optimism we like. Hilarious defending from United for the first goal. Unbeatable? Nope, outdone by Stoke. Until they all decided to stand on top of each other instead of marking the opposition for the equaliser. Best moment? Nobody from Chequebook Pulis’s band of mighty monsters marking at the back post when the home side made it 2-2. Brilliant. Almost as brilliant as CP not shaking hands with Hughes like a big baby. Sp*rs won. It’s OK, they will be back at Wembley next week. Koeman has to be worried. Two games in a row Everton have rolled over. Having spent a fortune. Brighton got a win, woohoo! And even better it was at Pulis’s expense. Fancy Jonny Evans, everyone’s favourite defensive transfer target being on the end of a beating like that. This time next week, Gareth Barry will have made more appearances in the Premier League than anyone else. That’s a pub quiz question nobody will ever guess the answer too. Arsenal won. Not so much Wenger, who tried to carry off a schoolboy cardigan and ended up looking like a dodgy physics teacher.
Us: Bakayoko into the starting line up and Fabregas and Pesto (blah autospell) supporting Morata up front. Willian dropped to the bench, which looked a darn sight better now that Zappacosta and Drinkwater were sitting on it in addition to a fit Hazard.
Them: All the players they had before, apart from all the ones we nicked. Oh and Harry Maguire. Mahrez has turned up – looking like Tom Hanks in castaway after spending the last week wandering the European wilderness barefoot, surviving on food he picked out of his beard after that bizarre transfer deadline day.
Buoyant away support today. Let’s get this over with. Do I sing the Y word? No. Do I condemn those that do? Not especially in the context it was used in today. It referred to a club the way their own fans refer to themselves. It’s going to be nigh on impossible to convince a few thousand p*ssed up people who do use that word they are doing anything wrong when the club in question sing about being a y** army and beat drums shouting it about themselves. I’ve even seen it printed on replica shirts at theirs. If it is offensive then everyone needs to stop saying it then, don’t they? Something is either acceptable or it is not. There can’t be one rule for one club and a different one for another, else you will just be beating your head off a brick wall trying to argue your point. At least the Red Swarm can amuse themselves having another pop at Chelsea tomorrow. There’s a circle jerk going on at the Daily Fail as we speak at the thought of Sunday’s headlines.
Suggested replacement doing the rounds:
“He comes from sunny Spain
He’s better than Harry Kane”
(It took all the willpower in the world not to insert an obscenity into that dribbling idiot’s name)
After one minute Bakayoko came storming out of midfield on a run that reminded everybody of Yaya Toure before he started sulking about birthday cakes, arguing with managers and got old. Morata took the shot, but it went straight into Sh*t Schmeichel’s hands. (Lets face it, he’ll never be his dad) It transpires we were next to the Leicester twat with a drum. Excellent. It took Vardy five minutes to p*ss me off when he skidded in on Thibaut after ball was out of play. Dirty ratfaced sh*tbag. I always forget how much I hate the cheating little turd until we play them. The first ten minutes were even. Though Leicester didn’t really cause any serious problems in the box, they retained possession well and had come out very physical, which is fine with me so long as we are going to get away with kicking them back.
Meanwhile the Leicester fans were singing “Who came third in a two horse race, T*ttenham F*cking H*tspur” (it goes to the same tune as Super Frank) It’s always grand when the whole stadium is taking the p*ss out of them in tandem. Leicester had their first real break on 18 minutes but leave it to Dave to save the day. A minute later a free kick from Luiz was driven low and made it through the wall, but went straight into Sh*t Schmeichel’s hands. We were definitely on top. After 20 minutes Harry Maguire was puffing like he’d been hung upside down in a wind tunnel having had Moses and Pesto running at him. Almost all of our success was coming down that right hand side. Any trickery they tried in the box was broken down swiftly by our back three. Leicester’s first shot was dragged wide by Vardy. Shame. I’ve decided that he is a thin version of Rooney. He’s a whiny, inadequate dick who doesn’t stop complaining, can barely speak English, who is always throwing himself on the floor or putting a nasty foot in on his opponent and then bitching when he gets a taste of his own medicine. And somehow he gets away with it all. And. AND, he uses the word “defo” in serious conversation. Happily he was having a right old strop at this point having had no joy. Not to mention the fact that it had stated raining so now he was getting wet too. Drowned rat. Literally. It had been competent and assured opening half hour by us, but the final ball hadn’t been there. Sh*t Schmeichel was time wasting already. We had about a forty second wait for him to put the ball back into play. A great clearance from Rudi bounced luckily for Morata who was away on 35, but he was being pushed wide all the way in and couldn’t get a decent shot off. At this point I was annoyed that we weren’t ahead but it’s not like we had tested them much in the box. In fact we could have been stung on 39 minutes when Kante gave it away. By now it was bucketing down. The home side broke quickly, but luckily Thibaut he made himself look bigger than the fat Steve Bruce sized head in front of me blocking my view of half the pitch and their best chance so far went begging.
Sadly for them, two minutes later we were ahead. Dave and Morata again. Just before the break that same brilliantly accurate pass from Dave that we saw against Everton, finding Morata’s head for the new man to nod it into the goal. Hurrah. Gary Lineker trying to claim it was offside on MoTD. Shut up and eat another bag of crisps, you bellend. That was until we spent the last moments of the half with our backs to the wall while they desperately tried to get back on level terms. It wasn’t a particularly mature reaction from the home side, bombing forward as if we were in the dying moments of a cup game. Surely you don’t want to risk going in at 0-2. Had Sh*t Schmeichel not saved a Moses effort with his legs that would have been the case.
They came out the blocks very determined after half time, and having made two subs. They looked slightly threatening for four minutes. Kante found himself in miles of space on the edge of the box. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. We all went “shoooooooot” and he went “why not?” It seemed to bobble agonisingly towards the goal, did it even have enough pace to get there? Then the net rippled. He didn’t celebrate much, because he’s such a nice chap, but that’s ok because we made up for it by jumping up and down like maniacs. Goalkeeper was shockingly slow off the mark. The Leicester fans spent the rest of the game booing Kante. How can you boo him? He’s got a big cheesy grin and he drives a mini. And he does sweet little interviews now. It’s like walking up to a puppy and stamping on it. Danny Drinkwater even got a nasty song sung about him. It was rotated with another song about their 5000-1 title win. They’re missing the connection there aren’t they? In Leicester, 2+2=Bellends.
We had some good chances to add to our lead, but nothing doing. Then, Courtois brought down Vardy and conceded a penalty you can’t really moan about. Which brings me to: Refwatch: Lee Mason. You can tell it’s not Anthony Taylor from a distance at the ground because he’s got a shinier head. Apart from the reflection coming off it it, blissfully anonymous for much of the game. I didn’t want to hit him with a brick, which means he has turned in a better performance than the rest of the jobber officials we have had so far. He even penalised the home side for their atrocious, never-ending shirt-pulling.
Thibaut got a touch on the little git’s penalty, but not enough to tip it around the post. Unfortunately the penalty stirred the f*cking drummer from the coma he had been in for the previous half an hour and he was at it again. From 200 yards away Janice and I spotted Hazard’s bum warming up on the opposite touchline, eagle eyed perverts that we are. Joyous news. Belgium didn’t break him. This time. The first sub though was Pesto making way for Willian. We’d been very solid at the back but as the last twenty minutes approached things had got very scrappy. That said, they had a lot of possession and got as far as our box repeatedly, but they rarely looked like breaking us down once their. It was quite hilarious how distasteful Leicester fans found time wasting when it wasn’t them doing it. Touché. Suckers. Zappacosta got his first appearance under his belt when he replaced Moses, but more importantly, come 75 minutes, Hazard was taking off clothes. As he waited on the sideline, Leicester fans had a laugh at Luiz and Thibaut lying on the floor after they ran into each other. We were laughing too. Because they were not injured at all, they were running the clock down and milking it for every second they could, you morons.
Time for a last roll of the dice. Theirs was Iheanacho and ours was Eden. We could have had a third goal. On 79 a stunned Zappacosta found himself in space with the ball in the box and nobody attempting to stop him but his shot skimmed just wide. We were denied a penalty shout. It may be that it was point blank, but the defender’s arms were all over the place, out in front of him and up in the air. Lucky boy. On 86 minutes we struck just wide thanks to a rusty Willy, who had another chance to put it to bed blocked by Sh*t Schmeichel. Leicester put everything into grabbing an equaliser, and there was a bit of hair pulling and wringing of hands as the four minutes of injury time ticked down. In the end, they couldn’t score from open play.
So: Another impressive showing from George Michael. At the other end of the spectrum, Willian seemed to have left his mojo in South America – we’ll put it down to jet lag. Bakayoko is going to be a monster once he settles in. Nemanja who? God it was good to have Hazard back. Just the ten minutes of watching him getting back into the swing of things by running past six Leicester players at a time made me excited about what’s to come this season when we have a chance to settle everything down with our new recruits. I am endlessly smug about us having ended up with the better player out of Lukaku and Morata. He’s catching on quick. The physical pasting he took at Wembley seems like a lot more than three/four weeks ago. Every time we see him he’s toughened up more. Every time Leicester tried to elbow him off ball, or out of the path of it today he assumed a Chuck Norris pose and gave as good as he got. And when he the lost ball late on he turned around, stampeded up the pitch and put in a brutal tackle to try and win it back. It took Hazard the whole of his first season to catch on to that concept. Rudiger continues to grow quietly into his new role. You can see at the moment that he’s used to a slower pace of game – he’s not incapable of keeping up, but he’s quite languid on the ball. He thinks he has more time than he does, but wasn’t caught out today and was quickly responsive all day when he started getting an earful from the other Antonio about it.
Three weeks ago the Nappy sh*tters were in a fit of apoplexy, the world was ending, Conte was leaving. Now we’re third. One point off the top. We are, however, going into a busy spell that we didn’t have to deal with last season that holds some tough challenges. Next step FC Carrier Bag, which you would hope would be a nice easy reintroduction to the Champions League. But we wouldn’t be Chelsea if we didn’t make at least a bit of a meal of it.
Oh. And f*ck T*ttenham. Unless we’re playing them at the time who gives a crap. Unless it’s Willian’s song, because he can never be given enough praise for nicking their private jet to come to England and join us.
Bring your change to the Bridge this Tuesday, I shall be outside with a bucket on behalf of Veterans in Action collecting for my desert trek.
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